


one more moment of this silence

by Red (S_Hylor)



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Child Death, Dead People, Ghosts, M/M, Minor Character Death, Missing Persons, Off Screen Death, descriptions of dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/Red
Summary: Tony can see ghosts. Not just any ghosts, but ghosts of people how haven't found peace yet, or refuse to. Ghosts of people whose bodies have never been found.The closer to their bodies he gets, the more he sees them, an ability, or a curse, that he uses to help the police find body's of missing people.It's never easy.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 33
Kudos: 126
Collections: Captain America/Iron Man Bingo





	one more moment of this silence

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been knocking around in my head for years. The title, and the inspiration from the fic, come from Drown by Bring Me The Horizon. I did initially plan for it to be a much longer story, but I got words for it today and decided to try and condense it into a short story. 
> 
> Thank you to quandong_crumble for the quick beta work. 
> 
> For my Cap/Iron Man Bingo square "questionable decision making processes".

Steve’s there again when Tony gets back home. He’d lost track of him somewhere between the crowd of police officers who had arrived at the crime scene, and the interview room Barton and Romanov had dumped him in for several hours to make it look good. He’d made a statement, like he always did, carefully crafted to omit the fact that he’d followed Jenny’s ghost to her body. 

It was easier always being the concerned citizen who was just really good at spotting things out in nature than it was being the crackpot who could see ghosts. Clint and Natasha knew, of course, which was why they’d called him in for this case, on the off chance that Jenny McIntyre’s body was anywhere in the section of state forest she’d last been seen in. 

“You okay?” 

Tony blinks, realises he’s been staring blankly at Steve the entire time, and rubs his hand over his face. He nods, and replies without any real conviction. “Yeah.” 

Steve frowns at him, not believing him for a second. 

Shaking his head, Tony shrugs his shoulders and rubs at his face again. “No, not really. I hate it when it’s kids.” 

Children, teenagers, normally anyone below the age of thirty, had a hard time understanding that they were dead. Children were the worst though, so scared, so confused, calling out for their parents or sibling, a precious toy. He’d watched Jenny sob and sniffle, wearing pink shorts and a yellow sweater, hair done in twin braids, and her front teeth missing. Just a kid. A kid who went missing on a school excursion only three weeks ago.

“I’m sorry, Tony.” Steve offers, like he always does, dependable and constant. He’d been there with Tony the entire hike through the forest, following the sound of sobs and flashes of yellow that only became clearer and more frequent the closer to her body they got. 

“She was so little.” Tony chokes on the memory of her tiny emaciated body, the minimal decomposition in the cool autumn air a sign that she hadn’t been dead for all of those three weeks. “Why can’t I ever find them alive?” 

Steve’s face creases into a sad smile. “Because the police only call you in when they don’t think they’re going to find anyone alive anymore.” 

It’s true, for all Tony wishes it wasn’t, and not through any fault of Clint or Nat’s. They’d been the only people to believe him after the first few bodies he’d found. When everyone else had treated him like a suspect, they’d been the only two who hadn’t. They knew the emotional strain it put on him too, and only called him when they were struggling on a case. 

“But thanks to you, Jenny’s parents can bury her now, they can grieve properly, and they have answers.” Steve tells him softly, moving closer, away from the unlit fireplace, pausing halfway across the room. “They can lay their little girl to rest, Tony, and her soul will be at peace and she can move on. That’s all because of you. You did that, and I know it eats at you that you can’t save them, but you do help them more than you know.” 

Sighing, Tony nods again, feeling defeated and emotionally drained. “It didn’t feel like the right thing when I saw the hope going out of her parents’ eyes.”

“Hope can be dangerous.” Steve reminds him, smiling sadly. “Sometimes it's better to have those hopes dashed so you can move on. Some loved ones never get that.” 

That some missing people stay missing goes unsaid, and Tony can’t help but think about the missing persons file that Clint had handed him as he’d left. One look at the black and white photo inside it was all he needed to know that it was finally the right one. He’d closed it again straight away and Clint had given him a pitying look. 

_ “It’s him, isn’t it?” Clint asks, pushing the cup of coffee he’d brought Tony closer to him.  _

_ When he opens his mouth, his voice doesn’t work properly, so he just nods, staring at the cover of the file, the name written there, the date. When he can’t stand to look at it anymore he turns it over, and picks up the coffee, sculling it in one go. It burns all the way down, but he relishes it. It’s the first thing he’s felt since he’d first heard Jenny sobbing in the forest.  _

_ “You’re not going to read it?” Clint asks carefully. _

_ “It’s not mine to read.” Tony finally chokes out, though he’s not sure why he feels that way. The date on the front tells him that the person in the file would have likely been dead by now, even if he didn’t already know that they were. Was it really invading someone's privacy to read a police file on them when they were dead? He didn’t know the answer, he just knew that it felt wrong to do it. Not without permission. “Did you?” _

_ Clint shrugs, noncommittally , but it’s as good as a yes. “I’m a detective. Reading files is what I do.”  _

_ Tony had to give him that, and he couldn't hold it against Clint for looking at the file, not after all the effort he had been putting into finding any file that had fit the vague description that Tony had managed to give him. “Thanks. For the coffee and the file.”  _

_ “No probs.” Clint follows him to the door. “Thanks for the McIntyre girl too.” _

_ “Sorry I didn’t find her alive.” Tony tells him, like he always does, but this time it hurts more, because that little girl hadn’t been dead all that long. Days, a week tops. If only they'd found her sooner. _

_ “Hey,” Clint cuts him off, catching his arm. “That’s not on you. That’s on us. We’re the police. And you, well you don’t see ‘em until after they’re dead. This is our stuff up, Stark, not yours.”  _

_ He tries to remember that, hold onto that sentiment as he leaves the police station. He tries to make himself believe it as he drives home, as the voices creep in static over the radio as he passes the local cemetery, even when he switches it off. The voices of the dead who do not want to find peace scream at him until he’s three miles awayand out of their reach.  _

_ He sees the flickers of figures on the road side as he takes the road winding up into the hills. Some of them the miners who had died in a shaft collapse over a hundred years ago, whose bodies were never recovered. No amount of talking at them has ever made them move on.  _

_ Finally he pulls into the garage beside his house and by then he can’t remember what it was Clint had told him. All he can think about is the missing persons file in his bag.  _

The fire crackling helps to stave off the chill of night settling in, and the soup that he’d pulled out the freezer and defrosted does help bring some of the warmth back into his body. It is about all that Tony feels like eating, even Steve’s concerned frown can’t convince him to try harder. He knows he’ll get lectured about not looking after himself later, but he’s too exhausted to want to eat. 

He’d showered earlier, thrown his clothes straight in the wash, but even now he’s convinced he can still smell the damp of the forest and the sweet stench of death and decomposition clinging to his skin. The scent is burned into his nostrils, he’s sure. At least he doesn’t have to worry about that when the ghosts lead him to bodies that are long dead. Those are better. 

It feels wrong to have a preference in death. To categorise people’s souls and bodies into those that will haunt him at night, and those that do not bother him as much. They should all bother him. He can’t help but wonder what the man from the file will look like when he finds him. Certainly not like the image that he sees, or the photo inside that file. 

“Tony?” 

He flinches at the sound of Steve’s voice, feels his heart jackrabbit in his chest, as he jerks his focus back to Steve, sitting across from him at the table. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise,” Steve counters, seeming so sure there is nothing to be sorry about, because he doesn’t know what Tony had been thinking. “You should get some sleep.” 

Tony nods, but he doesn’t move. He glances over at his bag again, still slumped against the wall where he’d dropped it earlier. Guilt starts gnawing at him, he can feel it churning in his stomach and like a solid lump behind his heart. 

“We need to talk.” He hears himself say, without even meaning to. He’d planned to give himself more time to think, but his subconscious seems to have other ideas.

Steve goes still, tense, his eyes widening and he looks terrified, like he’s thinking all the worst scenarios those words could prelude. Tony hates himself for putting that look of fear on Steve’s face, but he can’t reassure him that everything is okay, because it would be a lie. 

Pushing his chair back from the table, Tony goes and picks up his bag, opening it so he can reach in and grab the file if he needs to, but he can’t bring himself to. Holding it earlier it had felt like it was burning his skin. Like it was something he shouldn't have been touching. 

When he turns around, Steve is standing there, shoulders stiff, face mournful, only a foot or two away. 

His eyes dart from Tony’s face to the bag, focusing on the visible edge of the file. “What is that?

“A missing persons file.” Tony replies, feeling numb, hollowed out, more empty and drained than he had before. “From 1938.” 

Steve’s gaze jerks back up to Tony’s face, the stricken look growing more prominent. “Don’t. Send it back. Don’t open it.” 

His voice is hoarse with emotion, terrified, too quiet, and Tony feels terrible for making him sound like that, for putting that fear into him. He’s not sure where it comes from though, why Steve is reacting like he is. “Don’t you want to know?”

Steve shakes his head, stepping back, like he’s scared the file will fling itself out of the bag and attack him. “Please don’t look at it.” 

He’s pleading now, not something that Tony ever wanted to make Steve do. He drops the bag, and steps after Steve, holding his hands up. “I won’t. Sweetheart, I promise I won’t.” 

Steve’s throat bobs, jaw wobbling. “Why do you have it then?” 

“I thought you’d want to know,” Tony offers, voice trailing off because he’s starting to think that somehow he’s misjudged this. He had thought Steve would want to know, was so sure he would, that he’d get the file and then have to put himself through the anguish of helping Steve follow whatever leads came from the file. 

Steve shakes his head again, taking a small step closer to Tony, raising one hand carefully, extending it towards Tony’s, fingers spread out. Tony can see the scar that runs diagonally across his palm, an injury he’d sustained in his teens working on the docks. One of the few memories that Steve is sure of. 

“I don’t want to leave you. Don’t make me leave.” Steve whispers, a plea, a prayer, watching Tony for any signs that he is going to insist. 

His eyes sting and his throat burns, and Tony isn’t sure where the preemptive grief stops and the relief starts. He moves one hand closer to Steve’s fingers stretched out and palm flat, holding it close to Steve’s, but not touching. 

Because they can’t touch. They never will be able to. For all the unexplainable differences Steve exhibits, he is as intangible as all the other ghosts that Tony sees. 

“I won’t, sweetheart. I promise.” Tony reassures him, closing his eyes and letting the sting in his eyes turn to tears. He doesn’t know if it’s the right choice, or how long until Steve decides that he does want to move on from this world, but he isn’t going to force him to leave. He doesn’t want him to leave. He just didn’t want to be the only person who could help Steve and refuse to, despite how selfishly he wished he could. 

Maybe one day Steve will change his mind, realise Tony isn't worth sticking around for, but whatever his reasons are for staying now, Tony’s grateful. Perhaps it isn’t Tony at all, but the fear of the unknown that is stopping Steve from wanting to know. 

“I love you.” Steve whispers, almost as though he knows where Tony’s thoughts are spiralling to. “I’m not leaving you.” 

“Love you too.” He whispers back, and lets himself think for a moment that he can feel warmth radiating off of Steve, and can hear him breathing. When he opens his eyes though Steve is still too pale and slightly too transparent to ignore, but the smile he’s giving Tony makes him think that maybe giving the file back to Clint will be the right call. 


End file.
